Monique Franz
And just like that—I became a Christmas ghost. I deleted Kamal from my contacts and blocked him from all the social media portals where he had access to my mind. Truth be told, had there been no consequences, no God, no people to disappoint, I might have played out the holiday rom-com: me and Kamal cuddled by a fire, listening to “Santa Baby,” watching snowflakes fall like secrets.
We met online after I began teaching remotely. Autumn clung a little longer than usual, so when my gaze drifted from the computer screen, it usually settled on those defiant leaves outside of my office window. After reading so many onscreen paragraphs, the text seemed to crash and burn into one another, causing any meaning to flatline.
I had grown nostalgic for the long commute to the college when 90’s Hip Hop would energize my day. I missed how my students stayed after class to complain about their parents, boyfriends, or baby-mama drama. I even longed to grade stacks of papers, red pen in hand, circling comma splices and run-on sentences. By Thanksgiving, the home desk lost its appeal, along with the stagnant trees outside of my window.
Between Zoom sessions and my eyes crossing over English comp essays, I saw that my girlfriend Tiffany posted a picture of an attractive man on her Facebook page: Congratulations to my brother, Dr. Kamal Stewart.
My first thought—yum. Dark chocolate, a tidy salt and pepper beard, brown eyes that seduced beyond the screen. The brother was decked out in doctoral regalia, holding his diploma over his crotch, the same way a boy from the hood might hold his baseball lid. A scholar and a thug, I thought. Again: Yum.
I admired the picture for too long, neglecting my usual scroll for inspirational memes. But nothing else was going on in my life—no holiday trips planned, no good news, no bad news. Later that night, the picture resurfaced in my feed. I stared even longer than before. Brian slept soundly beside me as I traced my fingers across the screen, brushing the man’s 2D chest.
Flirting with fate, I wrote on Tiffany’s page: Congratulations to your handsome brother.
And just as I suspected, fate replied.
Thank you, Jocelyn, the brother wrote, his comment punctuated with a heart emoji.
I answered with my own heart emoji.
A minute later, his attractive profile pic appeared in my inbox. The message read: You’re not so bad yourself.
Oh, dang, I thought. Why is my face so hot? A silly smile spread across my lips. So much so, I glanced over at Brian, worried the shift in my energy might wake him. Brian simply tugged more of the duvet over himself and turned away, sinking deeper into a slumber.
It seemed safe to click another heart on Kamal's message.
How do you know my sister? he asked.
Our girls ran track together in high school.
Is that right?
Our girls were the stars on the team :).
Did she get her speed from you? he asked.
LOL! Nah. I move pretty slow.
Well, nice to cyber-meet you, he wrote.
You too. You can call me, Joss.
G’nite, Joss.
Goodnight :).
My heart thumped dangerously, much like it had 27 years ago when I met Brian—long before he was the dean at the university. Back then, I was 23; he was the principal at an elementary school I worked for. Brian was seven years older than I, newly divorced, and doing a poor job at hiding his crush on me from the rest of the faculty.
One day, Principal Matthews—as I called him then—risked his job to stop by my place during the Christmas break. He used the holidays to play on my pity.
“The worst part about being single now,” he said, “is spending Christmas alone.”
“No, you don’t want to do that,” I told him.
He shook his head, shy-like, “No. I don’t.”
I knew then that if I invited Brian over my threshold, he and I would cross a professional line that had no business being crossed. And I was right. But Brian has been nothing but good to me. So, why was I hanging around this stranger’s inbox like an alley cat, scrounging for scraps of attention?
I scrolled through Kamal’s profile. Just as I figured—married. That revelation sent me combing through the few accessible photos of him: a picture with a cat, one in the gym, one of him barbecuing with his shirt off. Nice. He wasn’t shy about his body, and he didn’t need to be. There were only two pictures of him with his wife and two boys. His wife looked like me: same mocha complexion, same hippiness, same love handles, same faraway look in her eyes.
I lowered my phone into my lap and stared up at the ceiling. In that blank void above me, I lost grip on what was real and what was right. Brian purred softly next to me, secure in his perfect world where white men lived at ease. I didn’t know why his ease bothered me—why it always bothered me—but it did.
I pondered reckless questions: Why did that dude hit up my inbox so fast? Is he a player? Am I still pretty at 50? And what would it be like—to taste chocolate again?
These questions drove me to Kamal’s inbox the next day: Hello Dr. Kamal. I’m curious. What did you get your PhD in?
He wrote: Hi Joss! Sociology. Good to hear from you BTW.
I hit the like emoji. You enjoy studying people?
When I find them interesting :-D.
Is that right?
That’s right.
I see you are married.
And? he replied.
Not knowing what to say, I wrote, So am I.
Happily?
Yes, I replied truthfully. Brian still bought me flowers, opened my doors, and I never had to fill my Lexus with gas. He did the dishes whenever I cooked and patted my behind at every bend.
Kamal’s sad emoticon popped over my reply.
I sent a laughing GIF. That’s when Kamal added me as a friend on Facebook, followed me on Twitter, and connected with me on Instagram. I accepted every invitation.
Social media gave me a window into Kamal’s mind. He posted a lot about football, which I cared nothing about, and he posted about the recent presidential election. His candidate was my candidate. His politics were my politics, so I liked nearly everything he shared. Kamal liked anything that had my picture, so I posted more pictures than usual. I even shared a photo of myself in a Halloween costume—a form-fitting catsuit. I hadn’t the nerve to post it months earlier. That post received 100 likes and—as I expected—another inbox message from Kamal.
U look good in that kitty costume.
Glad you like it.
I loved it! I have a kitten fetish :-D!
Well, I thought I saw a picture of you with a furry feline.
Oh, that’s right!
LOL! Should we talk about the other feline in the room?
The wife?
Yes, your wife, I wrote. She’s beautiful and your boys are as handsome as you.
Chips off the ol’ block. You have other kids besides your daughter?
Twins. Twyla’s the girl who ran track with your niece: Tyrel is the boy. Both are in university.
They home for Christmas?
My stomach soured at the question. The twins had asked to be excused from Christmas to attend a ski trip with their cousins. Brian, of course, was fine with them going. He was always fine with everything, and I didn’t want to be the Grinch that year. So, I lied and told the twins that I didn’t mind—but I did. They were twenty-two, no longer kids, but the house felt too quiet without them. Without the twins to worry and fuss over, Brian and I had little to say to one another.
No, they won’t be home. An empty nest for Christmas :-(
Ur man there, tho?
I guess. He comes home faithfully at 6pm.
:-(
LOL!
In the varied gaps between our texts, I’d wonder about meeting Kamal in person. He lived only two hours away in Columbus. Unlike Brian decades ago, I knew Kamal wouldn’t just pop up at my doorstep. So, I felt safe to play in our cyber field of flirtation.
Kamal continued, Well, I better let you go…cuz yo man won’t like it.
Whatever, I wrote, grinning.
I just wanted you to know about my kitty fetish.
Yeah okay :-D, I wrote. Goodnight.
G’nite.
I put my phone down, picturing that strong, dark man pulling me into his arms. In my imagination, he initiated a kiss—long and slow—before his lips trailed down my neck. And that’s where the fantasy stopped, because I wasn’t deprived of physical touch at home. It was the foreplay of words that I longed for—words other than “Hey, Babe” and “What’s for dinner?”
For days afterward, Kamal and I played recklessly in the inbox, indulging our infatuation, crafting kinky scenarios where he and I were the only players. Then, we deleted every word. This wasn’t for my sake but for Kamal’s wife, who, he claimed, always stretched her neck to peek whenever his phone was in his hands. Not Brian, though. Brian showed no interest in my phone whatsoever. I could’ve been plotting his death, and he would’ve assumed I was buying romance novels on Amazon.
The closer it got to December twenty-fifth, the less comfortable I felt with the inbox affair. About a week before, I unfroze Thanksgiving leftovers to make turkey tetrazzini for Brian. He likes my Jamaican stews and curries, but around the holidays, I like to make his childhood dishes too, just doctored a bit with dices of smoked ham.
Once the dish was in the oven, I slipped into a skimpy black dress, lit candles around the house, and asked Alexa to play a Smooth Jazz playlist. Tonight, I would forget Kamal and seduce my husband instead. But the moment Brian walked through the door, I knew my plans were shot.
“Smells great in here,” he said with a forced smile. He kissed me on the cheek. “Looks like you went through a lot of trouble.”
That was Brian code for: I’m too tired for the night you planned.
I grabbed him close to me, “How was your day?”
“Well, let’s just say—I’m glad I’m home.” More Brian code: I’ll eat and then go to bed early.
And that’s what he did. I stayed in my dress, but while he slept, I snuck away to find Kamal online. He had a message waiting for me.
How was your day?
Okay. How was yours?
Not easy, he replied. I waited thirstily as the ellipses danced onscreen, signaling he was typing. I thought about you all day, his message finally read.
Same, I admitted.
I took an iPhone picture of myself in that dress, making several attempts to find the perfect angle. The left side showed fewer fine lines and revealed just enough cleavage. When it felt right, I hit send. Then, I held my breath, waiting for Kamal’s reply.
Gorgeous.
I exhaled, grinning like a teenager, then sent a heart.
Girl, you gon’ mess me up.
:-D. Same.
Talk again tomorrow?
I’d like that.
I turned off the phone, then climbed on top of Brian who slowly roused from sleep. Out of obligation, no doubt, he let me express my pent-up energy on him. And you know what? I didn’t think of Kamal at all. Instead, I considered how safe I felt, how confident I was in my body, his body, and how much I enjoyed the music of his moans.
Afterward, my husband fell into another deep sleep, wearing the same half-smile that taunts me on nights when I can’t sleep at all. I hugged him tightly as he snored, sensing that he was—and had always been—miles away from my soul.
On Christmas eve, Kamal’s wife tagged him in a photo with their family of four, all dressed in matching pajamas by their tree. My throat tightened at the sight. His boys stood in the middle while Kamal and his wife posed as the bookends. A forced smile rested on each face. Kamal wore an impatient smirk, and his wife, a desperate cheese.
I decided to stash my phone in the bureau and spend the day with Brian. We lounged lazily, watching “Jingle All the Way” in front of our big fireplace as the beechwood crackled and spat. Outside, a misty rain melted an inch from the snow, and by four, the sun had already set. Brian decided it was late enough for sangrias, so we toasted to Christmas twenty-seven, sipped a couple of glasses, and went to bed early. Neither of us was in the mood for Yuletide romance. Like always, Brian drifted into a snooze dimension where I couldn’t go.
Around ten in the evening, the seduction of my phone got the better of me. I removed it from the drawer, and there were three messages from Kamal.
At noon: Hey Beautiful! How are you doing today?
At 2:14 p.m.: You there?
At 8:05 p.m.: I just wanted to wish you a Merry Christmas Eve.
It was 10:10 p.m. when I finally replied: Merry Christmas You.
Kamal responded immediately: There U R!
Hi.
Hi. I missed you.
Was it a good day with family?
It was okay.
I liked your family picture in front of the tree, I lied.
Keeping up appearances, he said.
Whatever. I replied, annoyed by his response. Though I envied his wife, I hated how unimpressed Kamal seemed with her. It fed my own fear that my husband might be just as bored with me.
He wrote again, I’d like another pic of you.
Oh yeah?
For my Christmas present.
Let’s see about that.
My heart raced as I rummaged the walk-in closet in the guest room. That’s where I stashed the outfits reserved for special occasions: banquet gowns for Brian’s fundraising galas at the university, bell bottoms and dashikis for the 70s-themed parties, Adidas track suits and Kangol hats for the 80’s, and then—the short Mrs. Claus dress that I bought the year before. Brian had joked that it covered just enough of my backside to get him into a fight. That sounded like a good enough reason to put it on.
The dress hugged tight, proof that the remote gig was doing no favors for my waistline. I snapped a few pictures, searching for the perfect angle. Sexy, but not desperate. Cleavage, but no hips. Pouting lips, but no teeth. The left side. I looked forty, not fifty. That’ll work. Send.
Afterward, I waited, biting my gel nails.
Damn, you fine, he replied.
I exhaled. Just what I needed—that heroin hit of affirmation. I hugged my iPhone to my chest, then laid across the guestroom bedding, its stitch work of sitting ducks beneath me.
I wanted this man. And with every texted word, my husband drifted further into another realm.
Moments later, Kamal sent a picture of his own: a bulging, blue-jeaned crotch, unzipped just enough to reveal his private hair. Nothing about it was flattering or romantic. It was menacing—aggressive.
I set my phone down. What was I doing? Would I jeopardize my marriage of twenty-five years for a picture of a crotch? Would I give up a good man for someone I knew wasn’t good to his wife?
I was in over my head. I got up to change clothes, wiping the red from my lips with my forearm.
Then, I went back into my bedroom, which always carried the faint scent of cinnamon, and laid next to Brian.
“Hey,” I whispered, nudging him. “Are you sleep?”
Brian grunted.
“I think—I should talk to you,” I told him. I had no idea what I would say. I just knew it was time to talk.
Brian turned toward me, one eye half-open, the other clamped shut. “You okay?” he asked.
“I don’t think so,” I said.
“Bad Dream?”
“No,” I said before rambling without brakes. “I can’t sleep… I miss the kids and… Christmas sucks without them. I’m lonely… and I don’t like where my head’s at.”
Brian sat up straight. “What’s going on?”
“I dunno. I feel empty… lost—”
Brian sighed, saying nothing at first. Then, he moved a few curls from my nose, “I feel a little lost too.”
“Really?” This caught me by surprise.
He kissed my forehead. “I don’t know exactly why you feel lost, but I definitely do. No one tells you how hard it will be when you’re fifty-something and there’s no more worlds to conquer. I’ve had several careers, I’ve raised my children, and already won the most beautiful woman in the world. Now what?”
I shrugged, smiling.
“Joss, I just come home and—sleep. I don’t know what else to do with myself.”
For a while, I just stared at my husband as his eyes dropped to find solace in my aging hands. He was struggling as I was. We weren’t in different dimensions after all. We were on the same plane of midlife crisis—only we hadn’t admitted it to ourselves or to one another.
Brian and I sat in silence, taking turns kissing each other’s hands until he finally spoke again.
“Do you want to see your Christmas gift?” he asked.
My face brightened, “Yes?”
Brian leapt up and ran downstairs, returning with the excitement of a child. In his hands was a gift wrapped in gold aluminum paper, tied with a silver ribbon and a bow. He dropped the gift in my lap.
I let it sit for a moment: guilt filling my lungs. I didn’t deserve to touch it, much less receive it.
“Open it,” he insisted. “I planned to give it to you tomorrow,
but—”
“No, this is great. Thank you,” I said, not easily shaking the shame. Slowly, I removed the silver bow, unraveled the ribbon, and peeled away the gold to find a thick, professionally bound book with color photographs of twenty-seven Christmases together.
There were photos of our first year as a couple, a young Brian and Joss in Santa hats. Pictures of me pregnant with the twins, wearing a Mary costume for the church Christmas pageant. A photo of the twins at age five, wearing elf costumes, riding their brand-new bikes. Then, another with them as teens, dressed as reindeers in their school play.
I flipped through the pages, one year after another, amazed at the memories and the vibrance of the photos. I could even smell the air of some of those places—as though we were catapulted back to those moments.
“This is incredible,” I said. “Where did you get this done?”
“I know a guy who prints on demand,” he laughed. “You like it?”
“I love it,” I said, reaching over to hug him.
Brian then took my hand into his. “I don’t like the kids being gone either, and I don’t like that you’re feeling as empty as I’ve been feeling.” He looked into my eyes—his green gaze piercingly serious, “But I am committed to filling another big book of memories with you.”
My head fell, the shame crashing down.
He lifted my chin, “Whatever you’re going through, I just want to know if we can make another book of memories together—just me and you?
“I’d like nothing more,” I said, tears falling.
And just like that, I understood. What I had with Brian was real. He wasn’t validation in an inbox. He was a physical man I could count on, a man I had counted on for the last twenty-seven years. When I needed anything, Brian was there. When I wanted someone to hold, Brian was there. And unlike Kamal, who became a collection of texts onscreen, Brian was a life partner—for better or for worse, in good times and crises.
On Christmas morning, flurries began to fall, dissolving as soon as they met the ground. They reminded me of the flattery that consumed me over the past few weeks—nothing substantial to stick to anything. While I brewed a cup of coffee, Brian kindled a fire in the fireplace. We would lie in front of it, huddle close, draping the plaid throw at our feet. When we felt like it, we’d call the twins, or maybe not. I just had to complete one important chore first. I pulled out my phone, seeing for the last time that captivating profile pic that was more imagination than not, and in the magic of three taps, I disappeared.
Monique Franz, founding editor of Kinsman Quarterly, has been instrumental in publishing over 80 underrepresented voices worldwide. A published author, playwright, and teaching artist, Franz has traveled to 33 countries, directing theater and youth ministry programs. She holds an MFA in Creative Writing from Wilkes University, where she received the Beverly Hiscox and Norris Church Mailer scholarships. Among her publications, she authored Legacy of a Father and contributed editorial work to Kinsman Quarterly and the cultural anthologies Black Diaspora, Native Voices, SLAM!, and The Presence.
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